


Switch

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Blindfolds, Caretaking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feel-good, Idiots in Love, Light Bondage, Making Love, Mild Kink, Mild S&M, Molly Hooper Appreciation, POV Sherlock Holmes, Praise Kink, Sensation Play, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Smut, Stress Relief, Submission, Subspace, Switching, Tenderness, Top Molly Hooper, Top Sherlock, True Love, Two Shot, slight daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27677144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: She needs it sometimes, he knows that.He needs it sometimes, she knows it too.That’s just what you do for the person you love.Switchy, sexy, romantic funtimes for Sherlock and Molly as each hands their control to the other.It's porn with feelings AND kink AND trust!Final part added.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 13
Kudos: 100





	1. Green Heart Go

_ Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. This is part one of two; both will look at switchiness in our fave pair. Enjoy.  _

* * *

**SWITCH**

* * *

_ She needs it sometimes _ , he knows that. 

Stressed out, no sleep, she runs herself to the bone. Taking care of him, taking care of everyone and sometimes she just needs a break. Sometimes she just needs an excuse to stop. 

So he gives her that excuse. 

He’ll always give her that excuse. 

_ That’s just what you do for the person you love _ , Sherlock knows. 

So he’ll send a text message; a green heart and a question mark. She can send him back a red heart and it’s no harm, he knows then that it’s maybe a night for takeaway and a bottle of wine and curling up together on the couch. Him reading his emails, she reading a book while Aunty Beeb drones away in the background until they’re ready to fall asleep. 

_ That is also a good and welcome night… in its own way.  _

But if she sends him back that green heart emoji… Well, that’s a different matter. That means set-up. A fire lit in the grate, food ordered in. Shower, shave, the right suit chosen. That means a present sometimes, a new toy or book or bauble to go with her body lotion, his massage oils. To go with the fresh sheets, a clean bed. The night he sets out before them, everything just so because he knows that she needs it to be. 

When she opens the door on those nights he’s waiting. Ready. 

A lot of the time he’s already hard for her. 

“Stop,” he says and “turn around,” he says and when she does as she’s told he melts out of the shadows of the flat. Takes her face in his hands and kisses her hard and fast and ready because God, he loves her when she’s like this. 

She always kisses him back like he’s the best thing in the world. 

“My Molly,” he calls her, “ _ my  _ Molly.” And he kisses her again. He presses her back against the door, swallowing her pants and any little sounds she makes as she gives into him. 

He loves that she always gives into him. 

“Green?” he asks because she can still back out, she can always back out and it’s important to him that she knows that. 

_ He wouldn’t hurt her for anything.  _

“Green,” she answers and when she does that he kisses her again. Roughly. Fully. Arms wrapped tight and filled with her, that warm, sweet, familiar body pressed against his own. Throbbing against his own. 

_ Jesus, she just feels so  _ **_fucking_ ** _ good against him.  _

He’ll pull back once she’s good and breathless. Take his time in looking her over, readying her for what’s to come. He’ll remove her bag, her coat. He’ll stroke and warm and coax her body. He’ll suckle and knead her nipples until they harden beneath the fabric of her shirt, the scent of her arousal starting to steal into the air… 

He always presses her hands above her head once that happens, there against the door. 

“So beautiful,” he’ll tell her. “So lovely, my little one...”

“Really?” 

_ She needs to hear it, he knows she needs to hear it.  _

“Really,” he answers, voice solemn. Throat tight. He never feels so close to her as when he says those words, as when she stares up at him in that moment. 

And then, still holding eye contact he’ll strip her bare, jumper and jeans and shoes and socks and underwear all removed slowly, slowly, until she’s utterly bare before him. Utterly naked. Utterly ready. 

_ She is so beautifully, miraculously herself in those moments that it makes his heart twist.  _

“Show me,” he tells her and she looks at him with deep, lovely eyes. Lets her head fall back. Lets her body loosen before him. Her breath coming faster and her lip bitten, bitten, bitten. 

Her back arches, breasts begging to be touched. 

He knows they’re begging for  _ his  _ hands, for  _ him.  _

“Touch yourself,” he tells her and she does. She never disappoints him, not when they’re doing this. Her little hands move over her belly, her nipples. It’s partly for her, partly for him because she knows what the sight of her does to him. She knows how much he loves to see her like this. She bites her lip and gasps-gasps-gasps. 

She breathes his name, her half-closed eyes on his and little tongue darting out to wet her lips.

He comes closer, ghosting his own calloused fingers across her flesh, teasingly slipping one digit than another almost inside her until she moans. Closes her eyes fully. By now red has taken the apples of her cheeks, it’s sliding down her chest and suffusing every inch of her body. Her breath is deep and lovely and needy and when he kisses her again she just melts against him. Curls against him. 

“Please,” she whimpers and “I love you,” she tells him. 

He always makes sure that he tells her he loves her too. Each time. Every time. 

_ It’s important that she knows that. _

“You’re ready,” he tells her, forehead to forehead and both their breaths hammering. Bodies trembling. She nods. Kisses him again. “Please,” she says and when she says  _ that  _ the words go through him like a sunrise.  _ The trust of  _ **_that_ ** **.** **_The love of that_ ** . 

_ He’s not sure what he’s done to deserve it.  _

But still, he picks her up and carries her back to their bedroom- no worry about nosy landladies, no fears of anyone walking in, not for his Molly. Not tonight. 

No, Sherlock lays her down and takes off his jacket. Rolls up his sleeves.

He doesn’t rightly know why but that always seems to do something to her and the flash of pleasure he sees in her eyes always does something to him. 

The bed dips with his weight as he leans over her, as he kisses her. He hears her needy little pants and the way she moans his name and sometimes, sometimes he just spreads her legs and sets down to feast, not stopping until she’s coming and babbling and muttering his name even louder. Not stopping until she’s peaked twice already and says she’s too sensitive and she just wants him to kiss her now so won’t he please, won’t he please? 

When she begs like that he obliges: Of course he kisses her. 

“You’re perfect,” he tells her and her smile is like sunlight. Their tongues stroke wetly together and he whispers in her ear that that’s how delicious she tastes, that’s how perfect she’s being for him. 

“I love you,” she tells him. “I love you so much.” Oftentimes she curls into him at that, shy and in need of reassurance. In need of intimacy and tenderness in a way that can’t be put into words. In a way that can only be shown. The sight of that always slows him, always touches him: For all her strength, for all her cheerful, morbid facade, she’s vulnerable, his Molly. Sometimes she needs him to love her vulnerability. Sometimes she needs him to ask for her control. Because that’s the nature of these nights together, that is the point of them. In giving up her control he frees her. In taking her control, he grounds himself. 

“There’s more, little one,” he tells her, “you know there’s more for you, don’t you?”

She’ll nod at that, eyes averted, cheeks scarlet. 

Her greediness embarrasses and arouses her, even as it enflames and arouses him. 

He’ll stroke and kiss and croon to her, suckle her nipples and knead and worry her skin.  _ They both like it when he marks her. _ As he does this he tells her how perfect she’s being. How lovely she is and how much he wants her…

“You love me?” she asks him and he nods. Kisses her. 

“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you,” he says and they both know, he hopes, that that’s the truth. 

And it’s with those words, always, that the true pleasures of the night begin. Sometimes he binds her hands above her head, tenderness making knots and ties and the carefulness that allows her to be helpless. Sometimes he merely spreads her beneath him, kissing her deeply and holding her hands down as he presses inside her, as they move together, sure and steady and deep. 

On nights like that she lets go completely; she wraps him in her arms and winds her legs around him. She matches him, thrust for thrust and kiss for kiss, until all the world seems made of is their kisses and their moans and the sound the bed makes as it smacks against the wall. On those nights their pleasure flares quickly and they come together many times. Breath ragged, hearts pounding. Sweat slicked bodies wound around one another and oh god, oh god, it feels so fucking good. At the height of her pleasure Molly swears and bites and pleads, she begs him to fuck her, to please fuck her harder… 

They get lost in one another, on those nights. 

_ Sometimes Sherlock fancies that they both forget that everything but the other exists.  _

Afterwards, when they’re drowsy and sated they feed one another. Kiss one another. They whisper to one another of their days and hopes and worries and sometimes, sometimes Molly tells him why she’s needed this. Why she couldn’t stop herself. Why she was hoping he would intercede. 

She can’t always say the words and Sherlock understands that that, too, is a part of them. 

“I love that you do this,” she tells him, lips pressed to his heart, one small hand curled still around his cock, or his wrist, or pressed against his belly.  “I love you so much, my darling...”

“I love you too, little one.”

Sherlock smiles at the words, at what they convey. For someone like him, so used to blundering through life and leaving hurt in his wake, he needs to hear it. 

He knows she understands that. 

The next morning it’s back to the real world, their real problems. It’s not as if he thinks this solves them. 

But he also knows it’s not meant to: it’s nothing to do with anyone but Molly and he. 

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

_ Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. This is part two of two; both will look at the nature of switches. In this we find Molly as the dominant and Sherlock as the submissive. The joy, as I said, of switching. Enjoy.  _

* * *

**THE HEART BURNS GREEN AND RED**

* * *

_ He needs it sometimes _ , she knows that. 

Wired, brilliant, manic with lack of sleep, he runs himself to the bone. Protecting her, protecting everyone, slaying every dragon that comes to his door and cases, cases, cases.  _ Jesus, that constant need for  _ **_cases_ ** _. _ He hasn’t a notion what to do with himself if he hasn’t a puzzle to solve. But he doesn’t think of himself, Molly knows this. What’s best for him never enters into the equation. So sometimes, sometimes he just needs a break. Sometimes he just needs an excuse to stop, to let go. To be still and safe and loved entirely. He’ll wear himself to fritters if he doesn’t. 

Molly gives him that excuse. 

She’ll always give him that excuse. 

_ That’s simply what you  _ **_do_ ** _ for the person you love _ , she has always felt.

So she’ll send the text message: a green heart and a question mark. He can send her back a red heart- or a stoplight, or a red rose, or once, for some reason, a picture of a particularly pensive-looking red setter- and she knows that that means a night of takeaway and a bottle of wine, the pair of them giggling together while he swears at the telly. Him roasting the guests on Jeremy Kyle, her reading through paperwork as she cards her fingers gently through his hair and he warms her bare little feet between his massive hands… 

That is also a good and welcome night in its own way. 

_ If she's being honest with herself, that’s the only sort of night Molly ever allowed herself to imagine spending with him before all of this began.  _

But if he sends her back that green heart emoji… Well, then that’s a different matter. That means set-up. Treats. A fire lit in the grate, food ordered in- His favourites, and hers.  _ He won’t let go if she doesn’t have what she needs too. _ She sets up an ice-bucket in the bedroom, his toys laid out beside it. Inside it. Fire, flowers, candles (the things she’s learned to do with candles...) They scent the room, light it as she drapes Mrs. Hudson’s old mink coat around her bare shoulders, as she slinks into those very special pieces of lingerie that he’s bought for her, those pieces she only wears for him. 

She loves the look on his face the first time he sees her like this, always. Always. 

That fraction-of-a-second eyes widening, pupils dilating. His mouth waters, pulse thrumming at his throat as he swallows and then he starts getting hard, she can see and he knows she can see it. 

He slips inside the flat like a thief. Like a supplicant. 

_ Eyes on her, only on her and Jesus but he is beautiful like that. _

“Close the door,” she’ll tell him then and, “strip,” she’ll tell him. 

She’ll hear the excitement in her own voice when she does and she knows he can hear it too. 

He always tries to babble an excuse and she always stalks over to him. Stops him. Presses him back against the wood with an openmouthed kiss, hand teasing his prick through the fabric of his trousers as he moans into her mouth. 

“Strip. Now,” she orders and he gulps- blushes- nods as he scrambles to please her.

_ Her darling boy is always _ **_so_ ** _ eager to please her.  _

Eyes down, lip bitten, he does as he’s told. He strips for her. She stares at him hard, red swarming his cheeks, his pale skin. His blush always makes the loveliest contrast against the deep, needy plum of his cock. She coos in pleasure and as she does she can see it moving through him, taking over him. His pleasure. His surrender.  _ She’s the only one he’ll willingly surrender to _ . His limbs loosen, prick straining against the fabric of his trousers until finally it’s freed. Ready. Hers.  _ Hers.  _

She never helps him, oh no, it’s not her job to help him. 

He has to show her. He has to earn it. 

_ He knows he has to earn it. _

“Turn around,” she says once he’s bare and he knows what to do. 

_ After all, he wants to please her _ . 

“Hands up,” she says and he’s so tall his fingertips hook over the edge of the doorjam. He has to stand on tiptoe but he does it. 

He might as well be trying to hold on to the edge of a cliff. 

“Close your eyes,” she tells him and when he does again she sees it run through him, that rabbit-shiver of need. Of want. Of surrender. 

_ Jesus but the sight of it always makes her wet for him.  _

She fits the blindfold on his face and he smiles, he smiles. The pleasure of it settles through him, a shiver of beauty freefalling through his flesh.  _ The trust of it, the trust of it…  _

“I love you,” she tells him then, and “You’re so beautiful,” she tells him then. 

He drops his head, shakes it shyly in denial. 

When he does that she kisses him until neither of them can draw breath, until neither of them can doubt. 

And then she tells him to cross his wrists behind his head, to lean his weight on his elbows. She takes his cuffs, his collar and fits them against his flesh, inquiring softly if they’re comfortable?  _ When she does that he always lets out the tiniest, loveliest sigh.  _ She starts touching him then. Stroking him, then. His flesh needs to be warmed so she presses butterfly kisses to his shoulders, his throat. The ladder of his spine. Her nails scratch lightly against him, finger and thumb plucking his nipples like a violin string. Hair curling against her fingers as she massages his scalp. As she pulls it. Her hands embrace him from behind, arms caging his belly. His chest. His body. She so loves making him moan for her. 

His hips pump helplessly, heedlessly, but she doesn’t ever, ever let him touch his cock. 

She’s not cruel though, nor is she careless.  _ She would never permit herself to be careless with  _ **_him_ ** **.** So when his breath grows shallow and his voice turns pleasing-pleading she takes out her first treat of the evening. It’s his fault really: he was the one who told her about the properties of ginger root, of the things you could do with it. Pared into a point and still juicy, its bare flesh has the most peculiar effect on the human body. Upon Sherlock’s body. 

For it burns, tingles. 

Sherlock always gasps when he first feels it. 

His head falls back and he bares his throat in bliss and in that moment Molly knows he is absolutely hers, just as she is his. 

So she sets to teasing him. Touching him. She wants his surrender to be total. The ginger root digs and plucks against his flesh, the wet, cut sides lathing heat against his skin. 

She pays particular attention to his inner thighs, his nipples. The sweet, secret ring of his anus. When he starts panting she has him bend forward, arms outstretched and body open for her. 

The expensive new bottle of warming massage oil is fragrant as she slicks her hands with it and works it all over his skin. 

He whines and moans as she works his arse open, teasing and torturing until he takes the ginger root inside himself. Until he moans and pants a thank you and a babbled plea for more because oh but he loves the feeling of being filled. 

Before he can concentrate on that though she takes her hands, her slick, delicious, warming hands and starts working his cock. Stroking him to completion. “Is this what you want?” she whispers to him. “Is this what you need?” she croons and he aways-always-always screams yes. He thrusts and moans and whimpers for her and she frags him fucking senseless.  _ He thrusts and moans and whimpers for her and still he pleads for more. _ It never takes him long to come like this- A shudder, begging moans and then he’s coming, he’s coming, oh but he’s coming for her. The pleasure of it leaves him utterly helpless. White spatters her hands and his shoulders bow, sometimes his legs have trouble holding him so great is the force of it. The relief of it. 

“I have you,” she always whispers to him as he trembles. “I have you, you’re safe with me.” 

“Don’t leave me,” he sometimes whimpers and she always promises him that she won’t. 

He’ll collapse down into a heap then, panting and shivering and sometimes even weeping at the sheer, unbroken, unexpected joy of coming undone for her. Molly holds him then, cuddles him. She kisses his lips, his eyelids. The familiar-beloved cheekbones and the planes of his face. His clever, beautiful eyes are so peaceful and so dazed. 

She tells him how wonderful he’s being for her and again he blushes. Again he looks away. 

“I love you,” he’ll mutter and his voice is so, so shy. 

“I love you too.”

Still shaking, she helps him to his feet. Helps him stumble into their bedroom. 

Still shaking, she tells him to lie down on the bed, to rest on his belly and let her take care of him. 

He whimpers and smiles and does as he’s told. She removes the ginger root, she washes him down and soothes the heat from his skin. As he lies on the bed she takes the icecubes from their chiller and strokes them over his back. His ears. The sensitive points at his sides, his eyelids. She teases the creases and folds of the skin around his cock, his perinium, his anus. His thighs. Holding ice between her lips she kisses him over and over again. 

When he’s like this she plays with his skin, stroking him with ice cubes and feathers. She teases his lips and his mouth with rose petals, brings him to moaning pleasure with the simple press of fur against his skin. A metal comb, cooled by the ice, becomes an instrument of pleasure and of torture. An old tie of his, silk and expensive, becomes a way to bind him to the bed and have her way with him. As she teases him and touches him Molly plays with herself, touches herself. 

Despite the blindfold he knows what she’s doing and despite the blindfold he wants to play too. 

And then when she’s ready, and when he is, well then she takes his cock into her sweet-cool mouth. She sucks and licks and works him until he’s hard as he can be. And then she climbs atop him, rides him. 

Their breaths hiss together and their bodies press together and it’s utterly, utterly brilliant how good he makes her feel. 

They never last long like that, neither of them: it’s all the build up, Molly thinks. Once she has his cock inside her she can’t hold back anymore. And when she comes it’s moaning his name, it’s kissing him and touching him and telling him that she loves him… 

Afterwards, afterwards they lie together. Breathe together. 

Sometimes they don’t move for hours. 

“I love you,” he tells her, “I love you so much…”

“I love you too, Sherlock,” she whispers and when he smiles she knows he understands that’s true.

* * *

The next day he’ll wake up an ungodly hour, awash with energy and new ideas but gentle with control and satiation. Gentle with his being in his own skin. 

He’ll kiss and cuddle and make love with Molly and neither of them will care for anything else in the world at all. 


End file.
